HATE ME PROPERLY THIS TIME

Stranger

Aria stared at him.

For a whole day, the city had called her a monster. Even her husband hadn't believed her.

And this stranger, with ink on his hands, didn't think she did it.

"Why?" Her voice cracked. "You don't even know me."

"No," he said. "But I've watched that video about fifty times today. Everybody on this street has. My neighbor keeps playing it on full volume."

He leaned against the door frame.

"Look at her hands. She grabs your hand first. Then she falls backward, slowly, and lands on her side, away from her stomach. Nobody falls like that by accident."

He shook his head.

"But that's how this city works. When rich people point a finger, everybody forgets how to think. They don't look at what happened. They look at who is crying, and who is paying."

He gave a tired little smile. "Me, I just print things. I've learned to read what's actually on the page."

Aria didn't know what to say.

Then a cold wind blew rain into her face, and she started shivering so hard her teeth knocked together.

The man stepped aside.

"Come in before you catch a cold," he said. "I'm not going to bite. I'm too tired."

* * *

The shop was small and warm and smelled like fresh paper and machine oil.

On one table sat a pile of wedding invitations with gold letters.

Aria looked at the invitations and quickly looked away.

He noticed. He didn't say anything. He just turned the pile face down.

Then he handed her a clean towel and a mug of hot tea with too much sugar in it.

"Sorry," he said. "I only know how to make it sweet."

She wrapped her cold hands around the mug. "It's fine."

The big machine hummed. Rain beat against the window.

He didn't ask her a single question.

It was the first time since last night that someone had not wanted something from her.

Aria watched him work, slow and careful, checking every sheet as if each one mattered. Somehow, it calmed her.

"I'm Ethan," he said finally. "Ethan Cole. This is my shop."

"Aria."

"I know." A small smile. "You're kind of famous today."

She surprised herself by laughing. It was short and broken, but it was real.

"Is this how you treat all your famous customers?"

"Only the ones who knock at ten at night looking like they swam here."

"I walked."

"From where?"

"From my old life."

Ethan nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense.

* * *

Ethan lent her a charger. Her phone came back to life at eleven.

Thirty-two missed calls. All from Tasha.

Aria had barely pressed call when Tasha screamed into the phone.

"WHERE ARE YOU? I went to that mansion and the guard said you left! In the rain! Aria, I thought you were dead in a gutter somewhere!"

"I'm okay, Tash. I'm at a print shop on Brook Street."

"A print shop? What are you doing at a print shop at midnight? Don't move. I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, a taxi screeched to a stop outside. Tasha jumped out in a big jacket and bedroom slippers.

She ran in, grabbed Aria, and hugged her so tightly that Aria couldn't breathe.

Then she pulled back and looked at Ethan.

She looked at his shoulders. She looked at his rolled-up sleeves. She looked at Aria.

"Hmm," Tasha said.

"Don't," Aria warned.

"I didn't say anything!"

Ethan hid a smile. "Get her home safe."

At the door, Aria turned back.

"Ethan. Thank you."

"For the terrible tea?"

"For believing me."

He held her gaze for a moment. Then he took the big black umbrella from behind the counter and pressed it into her hand.

"Keep it," he said. "And listen. This city has a short memory. One day, the same people filming you will be lining up to say they always knew you were innocent."

Aria shook her head. "You don't know that."

"No," he said, and smiled properly for the first time, a warm, crooked smile that reached his eyes. "But I'd bet my shop on it."

* * *

Tasha's apartment was one small room with a kitchen in the corner and a ceiling fan that squeaked.

Tasha made instant noodles, sat Aria on the bed, and wrapped her in two blankets.

"Okay," she said, dropping down next to her. "I know today was terrible. But listen to me. There's one good thing."

"What good thing?"

Tasha grinned and wiggled her shoulders. Anything to see her friend smile again.

"Babe. You divorced a Thorne." She jumped up and started dancing around the tiny room, waving her arms like she was at a party. "Half of Thorne money! Half! The bank accounts! The houses! The cars! We're rich!"

"Tash—"

"And a house with a pool, and a man to clean the pool—"

"Tasha—"

"I could quit my job! I could start a business! I could—"

"I have nothiiiing!" Aria screamed.

Tasha froze in the middle of a spin.

Aria pressed her hands over her face. "You're making me shout, girl. Please. Just stop. There is none of that money anywhere."

Tasha sat down carefully beside her, the way you sit next to someone who might break.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm stressing you. But... what do you mean, nothing?"

Aria let out a long, tired breath.

"None of it is his, Tash. The house, the cars, the company, the money. It all belongs to his father. It came down from his grandfather. It's a family thing. Lucas doesn't own anything in his own name."

"But you're his wife. Weren't you supposed to—"

"His mother filed a police complaint." Aria's voice was flat. "Assault on a pregnant woman. With those fake messages, they said I could go to prison. So they gave me a choice. Sign the divorce and leave with nothing, or face the charges."

Tasha's mouth fell open.

"And honestly?" Aria stared at the ceiling. "Even if they hadn't forced me, I couldn't stay in that house. Not after last night. It would have been hell."

She sighed. "So I signed it all away. One bag. That's what I left with." She held it up. "This is it. This is my jackpot."

Tasha stared at the bag. Then at Aria.

"Well," she said after a long pause. "I'm not quitting my job, then."

It was such a stupid, honest thing to say that something in Aria's chest cracked open.

Aria laughed. She laughed at Tasha, at the dancing, at the man to clean the pool, at the whole terrible day. She laughed until her eyes watered, because if she didn't laugh, she would scream again.

"I'm sorry," Tasha said, laughing too. "I'm sorry, I'm a terrible friend."

"You're the only friend I have left."

But later, when Tasha fell asleep snoring beside her, Aria lay awake staring at the squeaking fan.

The laughter was gone.

Only the quiet was left.

* * *

On the other side of the city, in a private hospital room full of flowers, Celeste Monroe sat up in bed.

The doctor's report lay on the table. Mother and baby, stable.

Vivienne had kissed her forehead and called her "my brave girl."

Celeste scrolled through the comments on her phone.

[Poor Celeste.]

[She's an angel.]

[Lock the wife up.]

She smiled.

Then she opened a chat with a contact saved only as M.

[Delete everything. Every file. Every draft. Tonight.]

For a long moment, nothing happened. The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Celeste frowned.

Then, finally:

[Done.]

Celeste put the phone down and rested a hand on her stomach.

"Sleep well, Aria," she whispered. "This is just the beginning.”